Spirit's Princess (22 page)

“So do I,” Yama put in. “We’ll go together. Emi, please take Himiko’s bedroll inside.”

“Let me do it!” I cried, and even with my lopsided gait, I was up the ladder before either of them could stop me.

Father was the first to see us. He wasn’t knee-deep in the irrigation canal but up on a slight rise, directing the work. When he saw me, his expression became guarded.

“Here’s your daughter,” Yama said.

“She’s well?” Father asked, eyeing me uncertainly.

“Why not talk to her directly?” the shaman said dryly. “You might be surprised by how well that works.”

“I’m fine, Father.” I rushed to reassure him, and to banish the glare he aimed at Yama. “Can I help? I’m ready to work.”

He regarded me for a while, then shook his head. “You won’t work here today, Himiko. Tomorrow will be soon enough for you. Go home and see if you can share Emi’s chores, but first go down into the paddies and tell your mother that you’ve come home.”

Yama gestured downhill. “I think she knows.”

It was so: Mama had abandoned her work in the canal and was hurrying up the hill to greet me. “What’s wrong, Lady Yama? Why are you here? Is Himiko all right?” she called out as she left a trail of muddy footprints on the grass.

“Why are you shouting about it?” Father rumbled as Mama caught me up in a hug that smeared mud all over my tunic. “Stop distracting everyone from their work. The whole clan is goggling at us! Of course she’s all right. You act as if she were truly ill instead of just another moody girl.”

“As if
he
knew all there is to know about girls,” Yama remarked to the sky.

My father gave her a withering look but kept his tone almost
too
civil when he said, “Thank you for your efforts,
Lady Yama. You will receive proof of my family’s thanks at once, and more after the harvest.”

“I don’t think I want to wait that long,” the shaman drawled. “I’m an old woman. I won’t die as soon as
some
people would like, but I’m not going to live as long as I’d prefer. Other Matsu will bring me gifts of food. What I’d have as my gift from you, my chieftain, is that your daughter come to my house every third day from now on to keep it tidy, to run errands, and to perform other small services for me.”

“You want my child, a chieftain’s daughter, to become your
servant
?” Father gritted his teeth.

“Why not say
slave
, while you’re spouting nonsense?” Yama was cold as snow. “I gave your daughter help and now I want help in return, but not without your consent. Give it or let the debt between us remain unpaid forever.”

Father’s face paled. An unpaid debt to a shaman was an unpaid debt to the gods. It was nothing any wise man would risk. “Pardon me, Lady Yama,” he said, dipping his head slightly as he bit off the words. “I didn’t understand your request. It will all be done as you wish. Himiko”—he turned to me—“you will go back to Lady Yama’s house in three days.”

“Yes, Father,” I said, fighting back a smile.

That evening, Mama and my stepmothers marked my homecoming from Yama’s care with enough food to fill the bellies of a family twice our size. I ate heartily, which only made them heap my bamboo plate with a second serving, and a third.

“Be careful, Himiko!” Masa said, poking me in the side
with one callused fingertip. “If you get too fat, I’ll have to set iron bars under the floor to keep our house from collapsing.”

“Don’t be so hasty to keep our sister thin just because you like skinny girls, Little Brother. If you ask me, there’s no such thing as a woman who’s too fat,” Shoichi said. He gnawed the last scrap of flesh from the pheasant leg on his platter and held up the bare bone for all of us to see. “Hugging something like
this
isn’t going to keep you warm at night!”

“No, but if they’re thin enough, the rattling of their bones will keep the wolves away all winter!” Masa countered.

Everyone laughed—everyone but Aki. The only words he’d uttered throughout the meal were a stiffly formal “Welcome home, Himiko,” and the thanksgiving prayer we all offered to the gods before we ate. He hadn’t looked me in the face once, even keeping his eyes lowered when he gave me that cold greeting.

His indifference pained me, but the pang I felt wasn’t as sharp as before. As much as I suffered from his silence, I could see that he was suffering more. Shoichi and Masa were still young enough to enjoy lots of flirtations, but it wouldn’t take too many seasons before they each chose their first bride and started families of their own. There was no such future for Aki, by his own choice. His brief visit with the Shika had changed him forever. Those few days had been enough to place his heart in Hoshi’s hands as firmly as the woman in my amulet held the glimmering dragon stone.

Oh, Aki, you’re so alone!
I thought.
Even here, in the midst of our family, you’re living behind high walls. If you’d only speak to me
—

I was about to break the silence, to let my sympathy for Aki speak out, demanding to know what I had to do so that he’d let me share his life again. My mouth opened, but before I could speak, a calming presence filled my mind with a single word:
listen
.

So I said nothing, and let that evening’s silence between me and my beloved oldest brother stay unbroken.

In the days that followed, little changed. Aki avoided me when he could, shut himself away from me within a palisade of silence when he had to be in my presence. I accepted this the way I accepted a storm or a splinter or any of the countless aspects of my life that lay beyond my power to affect or control.

Even as I accepted his silence, I refused to accept that it would last forever. And even though it seemed futile, every day I turned my face toward his silence and
listened
.

Now that I was home again, my world returned to what it had been before Aki had rejected me. I ate and slept well, I sang when I felt happy, I helped in the house, I worked in the fields, I kept my distance from Suzu and her little flock of chattering, pecking sparrows. And every three days, I stepped into a different world.

How often did I bless our shaman for bringing me under her wing! The days I was able to spend with her were precious. With every lesson she taught about the way of the gods, a new pathway revealed itself before me. I learned how to make medicines, how to bind broken bones, how to tell
when a person who claimed to be sick in body was really sick in mind or spirit. When I had first come under her roof, she’d told me “Ask anything” and promised me three answers, but we soon exceeded that. She welcomed my questions, even when they were as numerous as summer raindrops.

Yama taught me the chants to use when it was time to praise the gods or to implore their mercy, to ask them for favors or humbly request that they leave us in peace. She also showed me the dances she performed, each with its own purpose, each sacred to a particular event or season, but when I tried to imitate her steps, my broken leg turned her graceful movements into a stuttering series of missteps and stumbles. Whether she set the beat fast or slow, whether she clapped her hands or struck a drum or one of the sacred bronze bells, I couldn’t keep in time.

She finally gave up. “If you weren’t doing so well at your other lessons, I’d take this as a sign from the gods that you’re meant to do something else with your life.”

“If I can’t dance, can I still become a shaman?” I asked anxiously.

“Maybe it’s a matter of time.” She dodged my question, which to my ears sounded the same as giving me the answer I didn’t want to hear. “You might not be ready to master the dances. That could—that
will
change. Now let’s work on improving the talents you
do
have and waste no more breath wondering why you can’t teach a duck’s egg how to fly.”

Sometimes Yama took me with her when she was summoned to help one of our clanfolk who was sick, injured, or in need of help delivering a baby. These opportunities didn’t
come often, and when they did, I couldn’t accompany our shaman unless Father was far from our village on a hunting trip. Even then, Yama always was prudent enough to justify my presence with a glib reason.

“Don’t pay any attention to Himiko. She’s just here to spare an old woman a burden by carrying my things.”

“Oh, Himiko? Such a good girl. She visits my house every few days to grind herbs for me, now that my hands look like a pair of ginseng roots. I had her come along so that I’ll be able to mix your child’s medicine faster.”

“What did you say? Why is
who
with me? Oh! Himiko! I didn’t see you. Did you come in here tagging after me? Tsk, that child. She must be bored. You’d think her parents would find some work for our little princess to do. Very well, if they can’t, I can. Since she’s entered your house uninvited, she might as well lend me a hand. Come closer, Himiko, and make yourself useful!”

Yama’s efforts to crush any gossip before it got started were successful. The last thing either of us wanted was for some villager to tell Father, “Your daughter was such a help when Lady Yama came to tend my poor wife. We’re all happy to know what a fine shaman she’ll be someday!”

The days passed, and my clanfolk grew accustomed to seeing me accompany Yama whenever someone needed her aid. Yama had excused my presence at her side so many times that eventually nobody saw it as extraordinary. If they said anything, it was only to praise me for being so willing to help our aging shaman. No one suspected that the turning seasons were bringing me closer and closer to Yama’s level of healing knowledge as well as her mastery of rituals
for appealing to the gods and placating the spirits of the dead.

It was good to learn how to bring healing and peace of mind to my clan, to ease pain, to calm fears, and to restore balance between the worlds of the living, the dead, and the immortals. I felt a great sense of accomplishment with every lesson I conquered, but what gave me the most pleasure was something I never spoke of to anyone, not even my teacher.

How to explain the gift of silence?
Listen
, Yama told me, and I did—in our house, in our village, in the fields, everywhere. But most of all, whenever I could find the freedom and the time to do it, I sought the refuge of the forest. I left behind the noise and chatter and commotion of life within the Matsu lands and stole away into the shelter of the trees. I drank in their ancient air of peace and ageless contemplation, and in that haven of my soul, I closed my eyes and
listened
to myself.

Such times were precious to me. I could have spent an entire day with no other company but the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze, the song of birds, the hum and buzz and click of insects, the rumor of animals in the underbrush as they went about the frantic business of survival, the whisper of a distant stream rushing over its rocky bed, and the deep, subtle breath of the earth itself. It was in those moments that I once more heard the voices of the spirits.

I loved to walk among the trees, but I always turned my steps homeward. The voices of the spirits would always call to me, but the loud, exciting, tantalizing cries of village life had a bright, attractive magic of their own.

In my thirteenth year, I received my first tattoo from Yama’s hands. It was given to mark my entrance into womanhood, according to our traditions. As soon as Mama, Yukari, and Emi saw the unmistakable sign that I was no longer a girl, they quickly cleaned me up, showed me how to care for myself during those times when the bleeding would return, had me change out of my stained tunic into Yukari’s best garment, and hustled me to Yama’s house.

“About time,” Yama said, looking from their radiantly proud faces to my stunned expression. “How does it feel?”

“I’m not sure,” I replied vaguely. “My head’s spinning.”

“Good enough.” Yama clapped her hands ceremonially. “The spirits have spoken through your lips. Let’s honor this day of transformation according to their words.”

With that, she handed Emi a small clay jar and snapped, “See that she drinks it all!” before darting over to her shelf and bustling among her supplies. I wondered what she was looking for, but when I opened my mouth to ask, Emi set the jar to my lips and gave me the biggest swallow of rice wine I’d ever had in my life. Next, Mama grabbed me from behind and made me sit in her lap, as though I were still a little girl. Yukari and Emi placed themselves to either side of us, held my arms, and told me not to move or be afraid. Before I could flinch, Yama was pricking my chin over and over again with a sharp needle, pausing only to rub soot on my skin. She worked so swiftly that she was done before I could say “Ouch!”

“There.” She wiped away the extra soot with a damp scrap of cloth. “Done.” She held up the mirror she wore
around her neck. I blinked to see the delicate spiral pattern she’d tattooed onto my chin, the lasting sign that would always commemorate one of the great changes in my life.

All of this happened just two days before the wine-making festival. The harvest had been good and there was more than enough rice to eat, so our clan could spare a generous portion to be made into wine. Huge jars were rolled into the center of our village and partially filled with water. Containers of raw rice were placed nearby as the Matsu formed groups and took turns chewing the hulled grains into a paste and spitting it into the water jars. When one group tired, another took their places. There was a great deal of laughter, song, dance, and comic storytelling. Unmarried young men and women flirted madly while the adults teased them mercilessly. Many couples took advantage of the festive air of confusion to slip away in search of a little privacy.